Vaelthyr, God of War, arrived in fire.
His chariot tore open the clouds, wheels grinding against reality itself. His armor was forged from the first act of violence ever committed. His spear had ended civilizations.
He did not bow.
"Mortal," Vaelthyr thundered, "you distort the order of existence."
Kael stood barefoot in the grass.
"You're loud," Kael said.
Vaelthyr struck.
The spear shattered on contact with Kael's chest, fragments dissolving into sparks of meaningless history.
The god recoiled.
Kael stepped forward.
The heavens bent.
Vaelthyr felt something impossible happen—
His divinity slipped.
Not stolen.
Not drained.
Reassigned.
Kael held the god's power like a misplaced title.
"You're not order," Kael said calmly. "You're tenure."
Vaelthyr fell.
Mortal.
Bleeding.
Terrified.
Kael looked down at him.
"Tell the others," he said. "This world already has an owner."
The god fled.
The sky closed.
And the age of gods ended—not with a war—
—but with a correction.